


A Violent Satisfaction

by radio_chatter



Series: The Archives [1]
Category: Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Character Study, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Derogatory Language, Explicit Language, Graphic Depictions of Torture, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Reposted Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2020-09-28 12:34:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20426057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radio_chatter/pseuds/radio_chatter
Summary: Because that’s what this all comes down to. If it was another Collective agent, he wouldn’t even be in this room, let alone the one wielding the bloodied tool – he would be in his office, going over reports and waiting for the verdict. But it wasn’t some agent, some name attached to an identification number, it was Scott,hisScott, and that changes everything.Rewritten and expanded edition. Please note the tags.





	1. Rewritten Version

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING: Before proceeding any further, please read the tags.**
> 
> This is a rewritten and expanded version of a piece with the same title that was originally posted back in 2017 for the Reyes Vidal Appreciation Week. I was never satisfied with the original, and though I started on the rewrite almost a year ago hoping to release it for Halloween, I've only now just returned to it. Hopefully this is the version that sticks. As always, a huge shoutout to [Donut](http://thydonutart.tumblr.com) for being the most amazing support. 
> 
> **Re: Bain** \- Due to his background in the private security sector in the Milky Way, I've always had a headcanon that he began working for the Collective after the Battle of Meridian once the kett were pretty much cleared out of Heleus. While it isn't a big part of this piece, there are two sections about it.
> 
> And last but not least, if you're into this sort of thing, I have a Spotify playlist for this piece, but it also doubles as my Reyes/Scott playlist. [You can check it out here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5KHGPUQlYXTo8ZVL1EB98c?si=Q5-HhD03SlykNeXKzdQcyA).

Reyes doesn't consider himself a fan of torture.

He understands the theory behind it, and he understands the universal necessity of it – he’s spent enough time amongst the aliens of the Milky Way to know torture isn’t a unique ritual confined to the human species – but he doesn't consider himself a fan of the practice.

He much prefers the tactic of subtle manipulation over drinks. It’s more pleasant for all parties involved, and in his experience, it yields better results. The atmosphere is relaxing, the liquor is sweet, and before the target knows it, they’re loose lipped and slurring secrets. _Easy_.

Torture, on the other hand, takes work. There’s the physical aspect of it, but there’s also the mental aspect of it. Overcoming the annoyance of their sobbing and pleading, ignoring the growing headache from their incessant screaming, navigating the bullshit from the lies. It takes mental fortitude and a patience for fools he doesn’t normally possess.

No, he would much rather keep his hands clean and leave it up to the professionals.

But there are rare occasions when someone else simply won’t do, when the torture session requires the _personal_ touch of the Charlatan himself, and then he is forced to make the trip out to the small, innocuous building in Spirits’ Ledge and find pleasure where there is little to be found.

Like now.

In front of him, a man screams his ignorance as a Collective agent seeks out and exposes every human vulnerability. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to see the damage already done. He can hear it with every ragged breath the man takes – a soft wheezing indicative of fractured ribs, a hiss on each intake for the dislocated shoulder.

“Answer the question, you little Outcast shit,” the turian says, and the order is followed by a wet _crunch_ that elicits a strangled groan from the Outcast. Reyes winces. “Who arranged the attack? Was it you? Were you the one who came up with the idea to damage the communication towers?”

“Go fuck yourself,” the Outcast wheezes. There’s an underlying nasal quality to his voice, and Reyes adds a fractured nose to the growing list of injuries. “I’m not telling you a goddamn thing.” The Outcast pauses to spit. “Tell your boss I’d rather eat eiroch shit than help the Collective.”

“Careful what you wish for,” the turian warns. “If you don’t start answering the questions, I will start shoving eiroch shit down your throat – a piece of shit for a piece of shit. It’s rather fitting, wouldn’t you say?”

When the Outcast ignores him, he delivers another blow that reverberates through the room and fills the room with the fresh stench of hard metals. This time the Outcast’s groan is unrestrained and pained, but the turian seems to find little satisfaction in breaching another layer of his defences.

“Who arranged the attack on the communication tower?” the turian demands before his cries have even quieted. “Who are you working for?”

The florescent lights on the ceiling splutter and click with the ebb and flow of electricity, and there’s a scuff of boots as the turian shifts his weight. The Outcast’s cries eventually cease, but the sound of his pain remains in the form of ragged breaths and soft whimpers.

Thirty seconds pass.

Reyes hears the Outcast strain against his bindings, the movement narrated by the clatter and clanging of chains, and then— “Rot in hell, _bareface_,” he hisses.

The turian inhales sharply, the last reserves of his patience spent, but Reyes gestures with a hand, and the room stills.

It’s been three hours, and they haven’t gotten anywhere.

His ego wants to claim boredom, his mind becoming dull as they go through the routine motions of torture, but the truth is he’s also lost his patience. As the minutes and hours tick away, he can feel impatience nipping at his heels and clouding his judgement, turning his thoughts irrational and his responses emotional, and it isn’t acceptable. He needs to end this now. He needs answers.

As the Charlatan, he believes he has few rules. Of course, there are the standard rules as within any community or established population to maintain a sense of order – they might be labelled the monsters of Andromeda, but at the very least they are _civilized_ – and then there are two indulgent rules.

Rule number one: Never touch the human Pathfinder.

Rule number two: Never fuck with Reyes Vidal.

He often plays them off as having deeper, more complex reasons. When Keema asks, he tells her it’s good for politics. In a way it is, and she can’t find fault with it. When Bain asks, he tells him it’s good business practices. A show of cooperation with the Initiative brings commerce, and keeping himself safe ensures a steady flow of product. He is, after all, the best smuggler in the business. Overall the reasoning isn’t untrue, and the Bain doesn’t broach the topic again.

Convenient lies and half-truths aside, the real reason is rather simple: Reyes Vidal does not like anyone touching things that are his. Rule number two is nothing more than a cheap distraction; the only rule that matters is the first.

So then, why two rules?

It doesn’t matter the species, at the end of the day every inhabitant of the port is the same: they’re all rebels, each and every one of them. When told no, their nature is to act out, to oppose authority. That’s what landed them here in the first place. If there was only one rule, Scott would become a forbidden fruit in a town full of sinners, and his life would be forfeit the minute the Tempest touched down on the tarmac. 

But introduce a second rule, and suddenly they have a choice. It’s no longer one forbidden fruit but two. Nine times out of ten, they will choose the lower hanging one. He’s a local. His face is known, and he’s no soldier. A poisoned drink here, a vicious dagger there – let them set their sights on him. He’s had a target on his back for as long as he can remember, and there’s no point in changing the status quo now.

For the most part, the arrangement has worked neatly. Both members and non-members of the Collective are aware of the rules set down by the new leader of the port, and things have progressed as expected.

Until now.

* * *

**FIVE DAYS PRIOR**

> _TO: [C-ETD-Main]  
BCC: [Encrypted]  
FROM: 1589ac-19_
> 
> _Communications tower in Kurinth’s Valley is down. Scans indicate a hardware malfunction. Maintenance crew, please report. _

> _TO: 1589ac-19  
BCC: [Encrypted]  
FROM: [C-ETD-Main]_
> 
> _No bodies available at the moment. That tower is classified as non-vital; we’ll send someone out that way within the next 24 hours. _

Reyes scans the thread with a frown. A downed communication tower isn’t uncommon, not to mention one so far removed from the port, but it is an annoyance he’d rather not allocate resources to. He flags the e-mail to revisit later and returns to his inbox.

Another e-mail from Keema asking if he’s finalized the date and time for the Roekaar meeting (she’ll be calling within the next four hours, of that he’s certain), a bi-monthly status update on the port’s security (if there were any pressing issues, he’d hear about it), and yet another request from Crux for project funding (what the hell are they doing in Draullir, _eating _his credits?). Overall, nothing is unexpected, and he cheerfully sends them all to his trash bin without a second thought.

His inbox pings again with an incoming message.

> _TO: [C-Gen]  
BCC: [Encrypted]  
FROM: 1762-bq-78_
> 
> _Pathfinder’s Nomad spotted near Varren’s Scalp. Appears to be heading west towards Kurinth’s Valley. _

Well, that’s convenient.

When he had spoken with Scott yesterday, he had mentioned the Tempest would be travelling to Kadara, but Reyes hadn’t realized it would be so soon. He pulls up his omni-tool and taps in a quick sequence. As soon as the call connects, the line is filled with the raucous sound of human music – classic rock, from the sound of it – and Reyes grimaces.

“Hold on a sec,” Scott shouts, fighting to be heard over the din. “Let me get you off speaker.” It’s followed by some banging and shuffling as he tries to locate earbuds.

As he waits, Reyes can hear the muffled pitch of voices in the background, but none of the words are discernable.

“Liam, one more word out of you—here, hold the wheel a second.” There’s a muffled shout. “Don’t worry about it, Suvi. We do this all the time. Where the bloody hell are they? Vetra—” There’s some more banging and crashing, and this time Reyes can make out the sharp peal of feminine laughter. “Okay, got it.” Scott’s voice is suddenly clear and less distant. “What’s up, sugarplum?”

“I’m going to assume you’re doing that for the benefit of whoever is with you, rather than a new endearment you’re testing out,” he drawls, leaning back on the couch and trying to imagine the scene in his head.

He pictures Scott in his armor – dust already turning the plates a faded charcoal instead of the gleaming black he knows it to be – squished into the driver’s seat of the Nomad and armed to the teeth. He pictures Scott with his blue eyes and perpetual stubble darkening his jaw, lips twisted into a wry smile that should be illegal, and he feels the familiar pull of desire low in his belly. He makes a mental note to clear his evening plans.

“Aw, c’mon, Rey,” Scott protests, and Reyes can hear the barely-contained laughter in his voice, can imagine the wicked, teasing look in his eyes. He closes his eyes and lets the sound wash over him. “It’s _cute_.”

“Precisely.”

“You’re no fun. All work and no play makes Reyes a dull boy.”

“Scott…” He tries to keep his expression straight, but he can feel his lips curving upwards.

It’s not that he is completely against the use of endearments, he just finds most obnoxious. Naturally, Scott having learned this, has taken it upon himself to come up with the most horrific pet names and employ them at the worst possible time. Like while they’re having sex, or when they’re in the middle of a conference call with Keema. It took her two days too long to forget, ‘my Chilean Chimichanga’. 

“All right,” Scott relents, but the smile in his voice remains. Reyes is grateful for it. “What’s up?”

“I heard you were headed in the direction of Kurinth’s Valley.” He sits up and reaches for his laptop, navigating back to the e-mail thread. In a second window he pulls up a map of the Badlands with the comm tower locations. Depending on road conditions, they could make it to Kurinth’s Valley in thirty minutes.

“I _could_ be,” Scott responds, coy. “I could also be heading in the opposite direction. Why do you want to know?”

Reyes rolls his eyes. He’s never been a particularly religious man, but some days he thinks God is testing him with Scott Ryder. “Are you or are you not going in the direction of Kurinth’s Valley?”

Scott chuckles. “You know, I can hear you rolling your eyes at me. Ah shit, hold on—” There’s a screech, and it’s quickly followed by an explosive cacophony of expletives, half of them coming from Scott. When he comes back on the line, he’s a bit breathless. “Sorry, ran into an eiroch.” Reyes hopes he isn’t being literal. “Where were we?”

“Kurinth’s Valley,” Reyes replies, bemused.

“Right. We’re heading in that direction right now. Suvi wanted to grab some samples of flora from that area.” He pitches his voice lower. “Do you need us to avoid it?”

“No, the area should be clear.” He double checks the status with a cursory glance at his inbox. Twelve new messages have arrived since the call started, and while one of them mentions an Outcast sighting, it’s south-west of Draullir. “I was actually hoping you might be able to help me out with something.”

“Asking for a _favor_? Do I get to pick my reward?” Scott sounds absolutely gleeful at the prospect.

Reyes shifts in his seat. “That depends on what you want,” he hedges, mildly concerned.

While most of the rewards Scott has asked for have been innocuous, like an expensive piece of tech or a weekend spent re-watching one of his favorite franchises together, the last time they had this conversation he was woken up at the crack of dawn to go rock climbing. In the Badlands. He hadn’t been able to lift his arms for three days.

“Well,” Scott draws out the vowel, “What’s the job,_ sugarplum_?”

He sighs. Apparently that one’s sticking for a bit. “One of the comm towers appears to be down, and I don’t have anyone available to go and look at it.” It’s a white lie, but Scott is headed in that direction. Why not kill two birds with one stone? “Could you take a quick look with that fancy AI of yours?”

“Oh, I see how it is. You’re just using me for my body.” Reyes lets his silence speak for him. In the background he hears someone snicker. “I’ll remember this,” Scott mutters, and Reyes can’t help but smirk.

It’s not the first time Scott has made a remark along those lines, and while it could be nothing further than the truth, he’s never had the inclination to correct him. If Scott wants to make convenient assumptions, well, that’s not his problem. It’s prudent for them both to leave him in the dark.

“I’m sending you the information now. What’s your price?” he asks, forwarding the navpoint and the necessary information off to Scott’s omni-tool, and sets his laptop side. He will need to let the first respondents know the issue has been taken care of, but for now he’s happy to just lie back on the couch and listen to Scott’s breathing on the other end of the line as he mulls over the question.

“I’ll have to think about it a bit more,” Scott eventually says, but there’s a deviousness in his voice that leads Reyes to believe that he’s already thought about it and made a decision, and he’s either too polite to say it amongst present company or it’s not something Reyes is going to like. He hopes it’s not the latter.

“Don’t think about it for too long.”

“What? Worried about what I might ask for?” Scott teases, and his tone is too knowing by half. Evidently he hasn’t forgotten the rock climbing incident, either, but Reyes isn’t about to let him get any more bad ideas stuck in his gorgeous head.

“On the contrary,” he says, dropping his voice to a low purr, “I’m looking forward to it.” It’s the same voice he uses when he’s whispering filthy things into Scott’s ear as he fucks him from behind, nice and slow and finding his mark with every stroke, and the significance lingers through the connection. When there’s no immediate response, he knows his work is done, and he feels a satisfied smirk creep onto his face. Sometimes Scott makes it too easy.

To his credit though, Scott doesn’t hang up the line or snap something about ‘location’ or ‘having an audience’. He manages a strangled and rather endearing, “I’ll see you soon,” before he cuts the line, and it conveys everything Reyes needs to know.

Tonight is going to be a_ very _good night.

Reyes gives himself two minutes to let his anticipation build before he returns to his work – fielding requests and forwarding off memos to the necessary individuals, dodging calls from Keema, and entering negotiations on a freight container the seller claims is from the Natanus. By the time he looks up from his laptop, eyes aching and stomach growling for something more substantial than lukewarm coffee and stale nutrition bars, evening has settled over the port.

He’s surprised Scott has yet to make an appearance, victorious and demanding his due, but he chalks it up to distraction. It wouldn’t be the first time Scott was sidetracked on his way back to port, missions seeming to pop up at random on his omni-tool from Initiative management or Outpost mayors, and it’s allowed Reyes to get more done than he expected.

He stretches.

Beyond his office walls he can hear the telltale signs of Tartarus in full swing – the rhythmic thump of music, the indistinct babble of conversation, the occasional thud of violence – and he’s considering his next plans when a salarian comes rushing through his door, breathless and frantic, copper colouring dulled by a thick layer of dust and grime. The salarian stops short when he sees him, seemingly surprised to find him in his own office, and the sound of his labored breathing fills the room with dread.

It shouldn’t concern him. The tendril of fear that slithers down his spine is irrational – harried scouts barge into his office all the time – but there’s something about the way the salarian is looking at him but avoiding his gaze, guilt clearly written across his features, that sets Reyes’ teeth on edge.

He leans forward, resting his knees on his elbows and steeples his fingers. “Report.”

The salarian darts out his tongue, wetting his wide lips. “T-there’s been an attack.” His large eyes blink in an uneven tempo. “In Kurinth’s Valley.”

Reyes’ first reaction is to raise his brow and shrug off the information – attacks happen in the Badlands on an hourly basis; they are hardly worth an in-person report when an email will do – but there’s something about the way the salarian’s eyes keep flicking over to his face, as if gauging for a reaction, as if this information should mean something to him.

Reyes stares at the salarian.

The salarian swallows, the muscles in his long throat convulsing.

Outside the current song comes to an end, and his laptop pings with an incoming notification. The high-pitched peal of a woman’s laugh trickles in through the closed door, briefly reminding him of—

Everything in Reyes goes still. It isn't a gradual freeze like the slow onset of winter, it's a sudden and devastating blizzard that lays waste to everything in its path, leaving nothing but death and silence in its wake.

“Status?” He doesn’t recognize his voice. It sounds foreign to his ears, distant and detached, as if he’s nothing more than a silent witness to somebody else’s tragedy.

The salarian startles. “Uncertain.”

He pictures Scott, eyes bright and smile even brighter, leaning over and kissing him one last time. That had been three weeks ago. Reyes had still been in bed, heavy-lidded and drowsy, the last vestiges of sleep clinging to him like a burr, but he remembers the rough scratch of Scott’s stubble against his skin and the warm press of his lips.

He pictures Scott, blue eyes dulled and vacant, dried blood and grime coating his face, laying somewhere in the rocky foothills of the Badlands. Even in death, he is beautiful.

“What happened?” He feels nothing.

The salarian shifts his weight. “There was an ambush. At the communications tower. They had no warning.” The three fingers of his left hand curls into a tight fist, the leather of his gloves creaking beneath the pressure. “The enemy forces scattered at our arrival. We had to either pursue the assailants or provide emergency aid. We chose the latter.” Reyes inclines his head, and the salarian releases a shuddering breath. “Medical evac came within three minutes of our call.”

Reyes contemplates the dirt and dust on the salarian’s armor, the dark splash across his torso he had originally discounted as mud. “You were there?”

The salarian’s unease returns. “Y-yes, sir.”

“How along ago was this?”

“Forty minutes. I came as fast as I could.”

Reyes taps a rhythm on his lips with his steepled fingers, digesting the information. When the salarian does not add anything else, he asks, “Is that everything?”

The salarian dips his head.

His laptop pings again, and he glances over to the screen. It’s an attachment he doesn’t want to see. He returns his gaze to the salarian. “I expect a full debrief within the hour and regular updates.”

The dismissal is clear, and the salarian sharply jerks his head in confirmation before showing himself out.

Minutes pass, and the club’s music ebbs and flows as the world outside his door carries on. His laptop pings a third time. He absently notes the title and the sender – Crux with a follow-up report on the potency of their most recent fungal cultivars – and flags it for later.

The unopened attachment mocks him.

He hovers his cursor over the link, and the vacant feeling in his chest fades long enough to feel a sharp spike of unease. He shoves it down, retreating behind a wall of indifference, and downloads the file. It is what he expected – a grainy video from the port’s security footage showing the medical evac arriving at the docks. The clip is thirty-seven seconds in length. He watches it twice and tells himself he doesn’t care. Scott is a soldier, and they have always known the consequences.

As far as lies go, it’s pathetic, even for him.

“I take it you saw the footage?” Bain’s voice trickles into his ears over the pulsing beats of music, and he glances down to his omni-tool with irritation. He doesn’t remember accepting the call. “We have teams scouring the Badlands. Whoever they are, they won’t be able to hide for long.”

He tries to concentrate on Bain’s words, but all he can see is the video footage looping in his mind’s eye. There had been so much blood he wants to convince himself it was someone else, but Reyes would know that dark chestnut hair anywhere, just as he would know that hand and that nose and those lips.

“Find them,” he hears himself say. “Find those responsible and _bring them to me_.”

“Already on it.” Bain closes the connection without another word.

* * *

As the wounds on Scott’s body began to heal, they tracked down those responsible, offering steep rewards for any information leading to a successful capture, and like rabid dogs the port inhabitants turned on each other, neighbours and friends becoming enemies overnight. The days dragged on, and the corpses began to pile up, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough to quell the cold rage that had seeped and settled into his bones.

The individual who had reported the incident never existed in their records, and any attempts to trace the original sender resulted in wild pyjak chases that ultimately led them to dead-ends. The attack on the comm tower was no mistake, but the true motivation behind it remained obscure.

_Was it intended to be an attack on them, the Collective, or was the plan more elaborate? _

_Had the attackers counted on the fact that the Tempest was docked in the Port, or was it simply chance that Scott had answered the call? _

_Had he been nothing more than collateral damage? _

The mere notion puts a sour taste in his mouth.

He returns to the scene in front of him, shaking off the thoughts with an irritable flick of his head and opening his eyes to the macabre scene in front of him. A pair of raptorial eyes are looking at him expectantly, and he makes another gesture with his hand. The Outcast might not know it yet, but the turian had been a kindness. The real monster in the room is just beginning to wake up, and it doesn’t have mandibles.

The Outcast seems to understand his folly sooner than expected. As the turian turns to leave, he begins to struggle against his restraints in earnest, the shrill jingle of the worn metal shattering the hushed quiet of the room. “Hey! Where do you think you’re going?” The chair rocks in his desperation. “Don’t leave me here, you turian bastard!”

The door hisses closed.

Reyes peels himself from the wall and saunters the centre of the room, stopping a foot away from the Outcast to examine the turian’s handiwork. Amateur tortures and the uneducated tend to assume that all pain is created equal, but nothing could be further from the truth. Doling out pain is an art form, and it should be appreciated as such. Like any form of art, it takes years of practice to hone and master, and only the truly creative individuals flourish in the trade. Anyone can break a bone, but only a select few can do it with such skill that it becomes a work of beauty.

A good torturer knows that they will achieve better results by breaking each finger rather than shattering the hand in one swift blow. The best know that stripping off the nails and exposing the individual nerves to shock treatment is how you _really_ make a man to sing. Time consuming and tedious? Yes. Effective? Most definitely.

Dealing out a large amount of damage at once, while undeniably satisfying, fails to achieve the same result as inflicting smaller amounts in more numerous increments. A sudden spike in pain will overwhelm the nervous system and allow the captive to block it out, or in severe cases, pass out, and render them all but useless. Game over. You’ve achieved absolutely dick all aside from a mess. No, it is much better to take one’s time with these things, carefully chipping away at the captive’s dwindling defences, and anyone worth the credits knows this.

Not to mention the time and dedication that must be given towards learning the different species. The best will know as much about the anatomy and physiology of their captives as a trained doctor, and they will use that knowledge to exploit every available vulnerability. It’s no coincidence that the best in the business hold medical licenses.

As Reyes lets his gaze wander over the bound man, he catalogues the damage and admires the turian’s creativity and ingenuity, filing away some of the more interesting choices for another time. There’s no doubt that the Outcast is in a great amount of physical pain, but his mind – and more importantly, his mouth – are still intact, a few broken teeth aside.

The Outcast glowers up at him, upper lip curling with distaste. “Who the hell are you? Another asshat who sucks the Charlatan’s cock?” When Reyes just stares at him, he looks away with a muttered _'fuck off'_ and focuses on the opposite wall.

Reyes smirks. His expression would not be so bland if he could see what horrors lie past the darkness. Nevertheless, the change in position affords him a new view, and Reyes lets out a low whistle. From the side the bruising is even more extensive, and even in the low light, he can see where the turian had wrapped one taloned hand around the Outcast’s throat, two gruesome lacerations following the curve of his neck. The twin cuts ooze with fresh blood, but it’s the rapid twitch of his jugular that catches Reyes’ attention – fear is such a powerful tool.

“Did quite the number on you, didn’t he?” he says, reaching down with a gloved hand and tilting the Outcast’s head to examine the injuries.

Another deep cut runs from the Outcast’s temple down to his chin, and one eye is nearly swollen shut. He _tsks _with feigned sympathy, and the man bares his teeth. Or rather, what's left of then. The few that remain are stained red.

“_Pardon me_. Where are my manners?” He drops his hand and motions to himself. “The name's Vidal. Reyes Vidal. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

The Outcast narrows his eyes, recognition lighting in his eyes. “Oh, I know who you are all right. You’re the filthy traitor that stabbed Sloane in the back.” He spits, blood and broken shards of teeth flying from his mouth. “She should’ve killed you when she had the chance. She should’ve stuck your head on a pike with the rest of the garbage and been done with it.”

Reyes raises his brows. While it isn’t an uncommon sentiment, it’s rare for someone to come right out and say it.

“You _wound_ me. And here I was, hoping we could put this nasty torture business aside and become friends.” He makes a show of covering his heart with his hand, one of his better performances, but the Outcast’s scowl only deepens, and he lets his hand fall back to his side with a resigned sigh. “You know, if you’re going to accuse me of something, at least get the details right,” he grouses. “I didn’t stab her in the back – can you imagine how messy that would have been? A woman like Sloane would have needed to be stabbed a hundred times before she’d fall. No, it was a bullet to the gut, and technically I didn’t pull the trigger.”

“Semantics, asshole. The point still stands that you’re a piece of shit without a shred of honor.”

“_Honor_? On Kadara?” He shakes his head in disbelief as his mouth curves into a bemused smile. “You know, your file never mentioned mental retardation.”

The Outcast begins to screw up his face, but expression is aborted with a hiss. “I’m not a fucking retard.” His words are strained, and a fresh layer of sweat beads on his brow.

“Whatever you say, my friend.” The Outcast opens his mouth to argue, but Reyes cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “Let’s focus on why we’re both here, shall we? I am in need of answers, and you seem to be the person who has them.”

“I’m not saying a goddamn thing.”

“You know, when Sloane died, she didn’t say anything either,” he says, crossing his arms in front of him. “As the life drained from her eyes, she could barely whimper, let alone curse. There she was, snarling like a hellcat in heat one moment and dead the next. You know what I thought as I watched her die?” A muscle in the Outcast’s jaw twitches. “It’s a shame she was such a cunt – in another life I might have tried to sleep with her.”

The Outcast jerks against his restraints, face twisted with unbridled fury, but Reyes just smiles, rocking on the balls of his feet. 

“She was rather beautiful, wasn’t she?" he continues. "I could see what Kaetus saw in her, and with the way you’re reacting, perhaps he wasn’t the only one who saw her appeal? I’m sure some of my men felt the same way. I know a number of them have no qualms over defiling the dead. A warm body is a warm body, after all. They probably took turns before _rigor mortis _set in.”

“You disgusting piece of shit,” the Outcast seethes, blood and spittle running down his chin. “You’d better kill me now, or you’ll be the first person I kill when I get out of here.” He gestures to the closed door with a jerk of his chin. “Right after I kill that fucking bird.”

It’s the fear talking. They put on a brave face and demand their deaths, sometimes laughing while they do, but the truth is they’re on their knees and begging. They bait their torturers with clumsy insults, blindly praying to false gods that their temper will get the best of them and their hand will slip, but any seasoned professional will tell you the same thing: their insults are nothing more than a mild annoyance, and their prayers are meaningless. At the end of the day, a swift death is a kindness, and often not one deserved -- least of all by them.

Emboldened by his silence, the Outcast keeps talking. Perhaps he mistakes it for unease. Perhaps talking is the only thing keeping his fear at bay. It’s a pity he doesn’t say anything useful.

“If I get out of here, you’d better sleep with one eye open. You better spend every waking moment looking over your goddamn shoulder because I won’t stop until I’ve found you. I’ll hunt you down and corner you like the fucking rat you are and give you everything that’s coming to you and then some. I’ll pay you back tenfold for what you’ve done to the Outcasts and for what you did to Sloane.”

His chest is heaving by the time he finishes, having scarcely stopped to breathe during his tirade, and if Reyes was in a better mood, he probably would have given him a round of applause for the performance. Livelier than the monologues he’s accustomed to hearing, the delivery was strong, but the content lacked imagination.

‘If you’re going to threaten a man, _describe_ how you’re going to hurt them,’ he’s tempted to say. ‘Paint a vivid picture. Give them a taste of what you’re promising, and plant the initial seed of fear. None of this, ‘and then some’ bullshit. It’s uninspired.’

“Is that so? I’m afraid you’ll have to join the growing list,” Reyes says instead. “I hear the Outcasts have put quite a bounty on my head, and while I don’t doubt your determination, your skill on the other hand…” He spreads his hands in apology, and the Outcast snarls. “Come now, you’re about as much of an assassin as I am a soldier. There’s no insult in pointing out the obvious. One might even say I’m doing you a kindness.” He flashes him a smile. “What’s the current price these days? Am I in the big leagues yet?”

“_Motherfuck_—” Reyes cuffs him upside the head, and something squelches. The Outcast lets out a long groan of pain. “Seventy-five,” he pants when he's recovered, ragged and strained. “Seventy-five thousand credits.”

Reyes feels his eyebrows tick towards his hairline, and he whistles, impressed.

“Not bad. Not bad at all. It’s gone up quite a bit since I last checked, though I’ll admit I was hoping for an even hundred.”

The Outcast huffs, mocking. “You’re not worth it.”

“In that regard, you’re probably right. A hundred thousand credits seems a bit excessive, even for me,” he concedes, turning and making his way over to the bench along the side of the room. “But you can’t blame a man for trying.”

Waist high and approximately six feet in length, the bench is a rather odd fixture in torture room, but that’s what happens when old living spaces are refurbished. Bathrooms become a temporary storage for corpses, dining rooms become interrogation rooms, and kitchens… well. That one hasn’t changed too much. The drawers still contain knives and forks, but plates and cups have been replaced with hammers and screwdrivers, and the small appliances have been replaced with power drills and handsaws.

He continues, tossing the words over his shoulder as he peels off his gloves and examines the array of tools laid out in front of him. “You know, they say you should overshoot your goals in life. That way if you fail, at least you still end up somewhere better off than you started.” He waves his hand in a vague gesture. “I’m sure the actual phrase is much more eloquent, but I imagine you get the point.”

Half of the objects are rusted and blackened with layers of old blood, dull and well-used since their arrival in Heleus, while others, like the small hammer he spies further down the bench, glint in the light and entice him like the brazen smile of a seasoned whore.

“Yeah? And where the hell were you aiming that you wound up a smuggler?” the Outcast asks, sarcastic. “There aren’t exactly tiers to the trade.”

Reyes picks up the small dagger in front of him, the blade no longer than his palm, and tests the edge with his thumb. It cuts through his skin like butter, but it lacks the sharp bite of pain he’s looking for.

“You are correct, my friend. Though one could argue that being an excellent smuggler versus an inept smuggler counts.” He considers the blood welling up from the small injury before tossing the blade aside. “It just so happens that I came upon smuggling by chance, and fortunately for me, I’m rather good at it.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“In good time, my friend, in good time. I’d much rather talk about you.” He gives up on the tools for now and returns his attention to the Outcast, leaning back against the bench and crossing his arms. “Did you always want to be a foot soldier? Did you always aspire to take orders?” He cocks his head to the side. “You do seem like the ‘yes sir’ type.”

The Outcast curls his upper lip. “Fuck you, asshole.”

“Now, now,” he chides, uncrossing his arms and pushing off from the bench. “There’s no need for that.” He turns back to the array of tools once more, allowing his gaze to rove over them until something catches his eye. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for just yet, but he’ll know it when he sees it. “Don’t get me wrong. Wars wouldn’t happen without pawns. A game of chess without pawns would be rather dull, if you ask me.”

“No one asked you.” The words are muttered under the Outcast’s breath, but in the hushed quiet of the room, the words echo and reach his ears as easily as a shout.

“Even so,” Reyes responds, not looking up from the table, “it should be said that you have a very important role, and it is not one that many men would be willing to play.”

His eyes land on one of the many screwdrivers on display – not that it could be used for it’s original purpose anymore – and he picks it up with curiosity. The shank has been modified with metal barbs at irregular intervals, and the tip has been sharpened to a deadly point. Based on how well-worn the handle is, it appears to be one of the more preferred tools on the table. Unfortunately it’s not his style, and he sets it back down.

_Seasoned whore, it is. _

Decision made, he grabs the handle of the small hammer and tests the weight with an experimental swing. Not too heavy, but not too light, and the handle rests comfortably in the palm of his hand. He holds it up to better inspect it under the dim lighting. The claw has a nice, curved edge, still relatively dull compared to some of the other pieces on the table, but with enough pressure, it will be able to draw blood, and unlike a standard hammer, the face is covered with tiny, needle-like spikes.

_Perfect_.

“Oh yeah? And what role is that?” the Outcast asks, and his voice is laced with a wariness that wasn’t present earlier. Sometimes it is the lack of torture that causes the first cracks in their defence. After so much pain, the sudden absence can be just as jarring as the first hit.

Reyes glances over to the Outcast. He's straining against his bindings, trying to get a visual. “What do you think?”

“Are you kidding me, asshole? I thought this was supposed to be an interrogation, not some goddamn therapy session,” the Outcast huffs, sitting back in his chair, and the chains clang with the movement.

Reyes’ footfalls echo around the room as he strolls back to the centre of the room, the small hammer loosely grasped in his hand. He crouches down to eye level with the Outcast and curls his lips into a sardonic smile. “Cannon fodder.”

It takes a second for the insult to sink in, then—

“Son of a bitch!" the Outcast shouts, red faced and lunging forward, the muscles in his neck bulging.

“There’s really no need to bring my mother into this,” he _tsks_, straightening. “Tell me, who was the target of the attack? Was it the Pathfinder or the Collective?” When the Outcast remains silent, he tries again. “Were you the brains behind the operation? Was it your plan to disconnect the communications tower? Perhaps you’re not such a common foot soldier after all?”

“_Rot in hell_,” the Outcast hisses.

“That day will come soon enough,” he mutters and swings the hammer. It lands with a satisfying _thunk_, and the Outcast screams. He swings again, and his aim remains true. There’s a wet cracking as the Outcast’s finger shatters beneath the hammer’s weight, and he pushes down, grinding bone and tendon together until nothing remains but pulpy mess of flesh and blood. “Consider that your warning,” he says, not bothering to raise his voice to be heard over the man’s desperate cries. “Who made the call?”

“It doesn’t fucking matter anymore, now does it?”

“Answer the question, my friend.”

“The Roekaar made the _fucking_ call,” the Outcast snaps. “You—"

Reyes sighs and continues his work. He takes his time with it, forgoing speed for skill as he recalls the lessons of his youth. He systematically breaks bones and shatters knuckles until the chair’s armrest resembles a butcher’s block and blood drips freely onto the floor below, all the while working to the soundtrack of the Outcast’s wretched cries.

Like all men, the Outcast eventually cracks, casting aside his pride between one swing and the next. “P-please,” he begs, tears mixing with the blood and grime on his face. “P-please.”

“Please what?” Reyes prompts, watching amused as the man’s ruined hand convulses beneath the bindings. “Please continue? Please pick a different instrument?” Twitching weakly in it’s own pool of blood, the hand appears to have a mind of it’s own. “‘Please’ is such a devious little word, wouldn’t you agree? It’s so easily misconstrued.”

“P-please… s-stop.”

Reyes lowers the hammer. When he crouches down to be eye-level again, the Outcast flinches, and he feels a heady rush of gratification. Any evidence of the snarling, smart-mouthed man from before is long gone. “Are you ready to answer some questions now, or do I need to move onto your other hand?”

Pain is replaced with panic in the Outcast’s eyes, and Reyes tuts, dropping the hammer and reaching up to cradle his face. He trembles beneath his touch. “My friend,” he croons, stroking the Outcast’s greasy and straggly hair, “if you just answered the question, I wouldn’t have to break your fingers.” He pulls away but stays within an arm’s length, holding the fool’s face in his hands. “Do you think I like this? Do you think I _enjoy_ this?” He absently wipes the man’s tears away with his thumbs. “It breaks my heart to see you in so much pain.”

“You’re a monster,” he whispers.

Reyes smiles. “Are you ready to answer the questions?” The Outcast dips his head in the semblance of a nod, his face still cradled in Reyes’ hands, and he drops his hands. He picks up the hammer and straightens. “Let’s start with something easy, shall we?” The Outcast eyes the instrument in his hands but nods again. “Why were you at the comm tower?”

“We’d been ordered to attack whoever arrived at the tower.”

“By who?”

“I don’t know.” Reyes feels his eyes narrow and harden, and the Outcast leans forward against his binds. The chains jangle loudly. “I honestly don’t know! We received the message two weeks before the attack. We were given the date and the time range and told to be there.”

Reyes frowns. He can hear the truth in the statement, can see it in the Outcast’s face, but it doesn’t come with any satisfaction. Having systematically tracked down and either captured or killed the other individuals present at the fight, the man is the last to be interrogated. Whoever planned the operation covered their tracks too well. For now, they’ve reached a dead end.

Fury and frustration swell in his chest, but he forces it down. It’s too soon to succumb to his temper. He shifts his weight, the leather of his boots creaking, and the Outcast blanches.

“Who is this ‘we’ you speak of?”

“Scrapper, Billie, T’Shok.” The names fall from the Outcast’s mouth in a rush. Had Reyes not known of them already, they would have been nearly indecipherable, nothing more than a slurred string of consonants and vowels. “We worked together when Sloane was in charge. Mostly we did transport security. There were a few others, but they joined later.”

“Who was in charge?”

“Scrapper,” the Outcast answers just as quickly as before, “but she’s already dead.” His next words are more slow to form, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows and recalls the scene. “W-when the Collective attacked, there was a grenade. One minute she was standing there, and the next…” He glances down to his ruined hand and shudders. Reyes had seen the footage. There’s a resemblance, albeit on a smaller scale.

“What did the message say specifically?”

“I don’t know. I never saw it.” He shakes his head vehemently. “When Scrapper said shoot, I shot. All I know is that we were going to be rich when it was all said and done. Fifty-thousand credits a piece.”

Fifty-thousand credits a piece is no small sum. Reyes files away the information for later. Whoever organized the attack is well-connected. If they can throw away that kind of credit on a small hit, there’s no accounting for what else they might be able to finance.

“Did you have a specific target?”

The Outcast licks his lips. “We were told to attack whoever showed up to fix the tower.”

Guilt lances through his core, and he clenches his jaw and looks away. If he hadn’t asked Scott to investigate— If he had waited— But it’s too late for regrets now. The damage has already been done. He unclenches his jaw and returns his gaze to the Outcast.

“Simple as that?”

The Outcast almost looks relieved when he nods, brown eyes wide and earnest, as if he believes he might survive this. “Simple as that.”

Reyes lets the words settle over the room. He crosses his arms and pretends to contemplate the information, as if the Outcast’s words might hold some semblance worth, and the Outcast gradually relaxes, the last of his defences dissolving. Knowledge shared, he thinks he is safe now. What else could they possibly want from him?

Poor fool.

“Tell me, do you know who you attacked?” he asks, sharp and sudden, and the Outcast startles. His eyes dart back and forth before he shakes his head, but the lie is obvious.

Reyes tightens his grip on the hammer. “That lie is going to cost you,” he says, raising the hammer, and the Outcast recoils, shrinking back into the chair with a whimper. He lets it fall back to his side. “Let’s try this again: do you know who you attacked?”

“The P-Pathfinder.”

“_Say his name_,” he commands, his temper starting to slip through the cracks of his self control. It’s only a matter of time now. _Three broken ribs, a fractured collar bone, two broken fingers and a sprain wrist. _And that had only been from the initial hit.

“S-Scott R-Ryder.” The response is barely audible, whispered through trembling, bloodless lips, but it echoes through the room like a gunshot.

Disgust churns in his gut at the sound of Scott’s name on the Outcast’s tongue, stoking his anger. “Do you know who he is?”

The Outcast looks at him, perplexed. “The Pathfinder?” he offers. The pieces haven’t yet fallen into place, but Reyes can see the gears turning within the man’s dilated pupils.

“_Mine_,” he snarls, his rage nearly choking him. “You hurt something that is _mine_.”

Because that’s what this all comes down to. If it was another Collective agent, he wouldn’t even be in this room, let alone the one wielding the bloodied tool – he would be in his office, going over reports and waiting for the verdict. But it wasn’t some agent, some name attached to an identification number, it was Scott, _his _Scott, and that changes everything.

Realization hits the Outcast in stages, and Reyes watches as his expression morphs into one of genuine horror.

“Oh god. You’re _him_,” the Outcast breathes, equally awed and terror-stricken, as if he’s just come face-to-face with the devil himself. Some might say he has. “We didn’t mean nothing by it. We didn’t _know.”_ The Outcast’s voice cracks on the last word, and it comes out like a plea.

Reyes remains quiet.

Waits.

Lets the rage settle inside him until he can think past it; until he can reign back his inner beast and be a man for a few more minutes.

The florescent light above splutter, casting eerie shadows around the room. The dried blood on the walls appears black, abstract designs on the metal surface, but he knows it is a riot of blues and reds in natural light. The pool of blood beneath the chair is still fresh though, gleaming brightly in the artificial light.

“I-I swear to you, if we’d known we wouldn’t have shot him. We’d never have even attacked in the first place,” the Outcast babbles into the silence.

“Is that so?” Reyes cocks his head and considers him. He takes in the greasy blond hair, the bruising and swelling that decorate his face like crude face-paint. No rings adorn his fingers, and his messy appearance suggests unattachment.

“Yes!”

The Outcast isn’t very large – a turian could easily pick him up and throw him across the room. Or carry his corpse to a vehicle. Andromeda is not an ideal breeding ground for obesity; with food scarcity and rations typically the only available fare, most individuals – regardless the species – tend to be on the leaner side. He considers if there are any remaining sulfur springs after the vault had been reset. Perhaps one remains at the far edges of Kurinth’s Valley.

“Let me go, and I’ll make sure no one – _no one_ – ever hurts him. I swear it! O-on my mother’s grave!” The Outcast’s voice has risen, his final push for mercy, but Reyes will never be able to forget the image of Scott’s broken and battered body. He had been so pale, and the blood had been so bright.

Reyes smiles at the Outcast, slow and indulgent, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“My friend,” he says, softly and little rueful, “It’s too late.”

He allows the Outcast one terrified scream, loud and desperate, and then he begins.

* * *

He emerges from the room an hour later.

The man’s death had given him an unexpected satisfaction, his mood lifting considerably at every broken cry and moan he had elicited. After fifteen minutes, he had been able to undo the bindings and maneuver the man as he pleased, any worry of retaliation gone.

He accepts the outstretched rag from the waiting Collective agent and wipes the sticky smears from his fingers. Blood has gotten under his nails, and he considers a shower, but a quick glance at the clock on his omni-tool dissuades the notion.

“Could you take out the trash for me?” He motions to the body over his shoulder with a jerk of his head. “I’m late for a meeting.”

The collective agent, the same turian from before, glances over his shoulder. “What do you want me to do with him? Throw him into a pit with the rest of them?”

Reyes’ hesitation is brief. “Make him an example,” he says, tossing the soiled rag aside. “Let his corpse serve as a reminder of what happens when you break the rules.”

The turian dips his head, mandibles flaring in the semblance of a cruel smile, and Reyes claps him on the shoulder as he passes. When he emerges from the shack and into the day’s dying sunlight, there’s a song on his lips and a bounce in his step.

* * *

Reyes crushes the last of his cigarette under his boot as he approaches Tartarus. It’s evening, or whatever counts as evening on a planet with a seemingly eternal sunset, and the club appears to be in full swing. A spectrum of different species are milling around the lower entrance, and on the second-floor balcony, groups of individuals have come together in clumps to smoke and ply their trades.

Reyes saunters into the club, passing under the watchful gaze of the krogan bouncers and weaving his way through the crowd, his thoughts occupied with business and numbers.

The meeting with Keema had been productive, and with any luck, shipments of Roekaar firearms will become more common-place in the port. Though the weapons are made from the same stock as the resistance counterparts, the Roekaar have grown creative with some of their modifications in response to the arrival of the new aliens. There will always be a need for bigger and better firepower, and it’s his job to ensure that Collective has them. Things might have settled down with the victory over the kett, but war will always be on the horizon whether they want it or not.

As he approaches his office, he catches the eye of a server and motions for his usual order before keying in the code for his door. The door silently slides open, the hiss of hydraulics buried beneath the din of the club’s music, a jazzy electronic number that has the dance floor swaying, and he stops short.

“Scott,” Reyes says stupidly.

Scott is sitting on the couch, chin cradled in one hand as the other holds a datapad. He looks at ease – albeit mildly annoyed – mouth pursed and brows furrowed as he scans whatever information it contains. His complexion is paler than normal, and the clothing he wears hangs loose over his frame. When he hears his name, he tosses the datapad aside and looks up, chapped lips quirking into a smile.

“Hey you,” Scott says, easy and light, as if he just happened to be in the neighbourhood and decided to stop by for a chat, rather than the fact he broke into his office – hacking through five different levels of security – and decided to make himself at home.

Reyes stares at him.

He idly wonders if perhaps one of the clouds of smoke he had passed through on his walk over contained more than tobacco and taelk leaf. Because while it’s not uncommon for Scott to show up out of the blue when he’s planet-side or for him to hack through his door’s security if he happens to be out – both are becoming somewhat common occurrences – from the reports he’s been receiving on a near hourly basis, Scott shouldn’t even be _conscious_ yet, let alone gallivanting through the slums, unarmed and in civilian clothing.

And yet here he is, on his couch, staring back at him a little perplexed as if Reyes’ reaction is the most unexpected thing in the room.

“Are you going to come in? Or were you planning on standing there all day?” Scott prompts after a pause, tone teasing and eyes sparkling with mirth, and even though Reyes has had months of exposure to it, the combination still makes his stomach twist and flutter like an inexperienced schoolboy. “As much as I don’t mind the view, I was hoping to actually touch you at some point,” Scott adds, and it’s only then that Reyes is shaking off his stupor and blindly punching the door release behind him and crossing the room in four quick strides.

It isn’t what they do, it isn’t their way, but in those first few seconds he wants nothing more than to wrap his arms around Scott’s shoulders and bury his face in his hair, to breath him in, to feel the heat of his body, to see the subtle rise and fall of his chest and confirm for himself what his eyes are telling him, but he tampers down the urge, settling instead for reaching out and cupping Scott’s jaw.

Scott leans into the touch with a contented sigh, electric eyes fluttering shut, and Reyes feels his chest clench in an unfamiliar way. It isn’t what they do, it isn’t their way, but maybe they can make an exception just this once.

He discards the thought as quickly as it's formed. Reyes has never been brave when it's mattered most.

“You shouldn’t be up,” he murmurs, thumb absently stroking the course hairs of his stubble and scanning for signs of injury. Aside from the bandages poking out from the collar of his shirt and the dark bruising beneath his eyes, exaggerated by the harsh florescent lighting, Scott appears to be okay, but the visual confirmation does little to ease the knot in his chest.

Scott lifts his eyes, and his smile is too perceptive by half. He has the decency to not on comment on his blatant concern. “Did you honestly expect me to stay in the medbay?”

Reyes snorts, releasing his jaw.

“No,” he responds truthfully, shaking his head with resignation. “But I didn’t expect you to wake up and immediately _leave._ You can’t have been awake for more than a few hours.”

Scott lifts his shoulder in a half shrug and looks away, lips twitching, and Reyes mentally cuts his estimation down to an hour – _if _that.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he mutters, but the words carry no reproach. It’s impossible when all of his efforts are spent trying to tamper down the unnamed emotion swelling his chest, fever hot and dangerous, because Scott woke up from a weeklong coma and immediately sought _him_ out. Not his crew, not his doctor, not his twin sister – _him_.

Scott leans back and motions for him to join him, and Reyes sinks into the couch, grateful for the excuse to press close. This close he can smell Scott’s shampoo, a blend of citrus and mint, but there’s a subtle hint of iodoform underneath the scent that makes him frown. Scott should smell like Hoppes #99 gun lube and faded deodorant, not like he just walked out of an operating room.

"How was work?" Scott asks, tangling their fingers together and pulling him away from his thoughts.

He seems content to sit and make idle conversation, but Reyes doesn't mind. The exhaustion of the day is slowly catching up to him as his adrenaline wears off, limbs growing heavy and mind becoming sluggish, and Scott’s presence is like a soothing balm on his frayed edges. It always takes him a while to reset after a torture session, to shed the skin of the man he once was until he has need for him again.

Reyes stares at their joined hands and pictures the blood stains hidden beneath his gloves. They’re no closer to finding the culprit behind the attacks, and he still doesn’t know who the original target was, but they’ve struck a hard blow against the vermin roaming the Badlands. He can rest easier knowing that the individuals who spilled Scott’s blood have paid for it with their pathetic lives.

"Satisfying," he eventually says, and he tries to not sound smug about it.

“Is that so?” The words are careful yet deliberate, and Reyes glances up from their tangled hands, suddenly wary.

He’s never bothered to hide who he is, but if he has omitted details from time to time, well, that’s just comes with the territory of their relationship. He isn’t ashamed, but he’s always believed that some things are better left unsaid. They both have their monsters, tucked away and hidden beneath false smiles and expensive armor, and while it’s one thing to acknowledge them, it’s another thing entirely to bring them out for show-and-tell.

When their eyes meet, Scott's gaze is piercing. Unrestrained emotions flicker across his face almost too quickly to catalogue – pleasure and approval and something foreign Reyes wishes he could decipher – before smoothing into a mask of smug satisfaction.

Reyes cocks his head, and Scott's eyes slowly trail down his face and past his chin until they settle on the exposed strip of skin above the collar of his armor. Reyes tries to keep his expression blank. It’s moments like these, when he feels like a helpless target caught in the cross hairs of a Scott's scope, he is reminded of two things: one, Scott could probably kill him seventy-five different ways within the span of thirty seconds, and two, his specialty in the Alliance Military was reconnaissance.

It shouldn't turn him on as much as it does.

Scott's gaze flicks back up, and a question hangs in the air.

Reyes thinks back on his day, and the image of the Outcast’s face contorted in agony emerges to the forefront. There had been an impressive spray of blood when he severed an artery. He feels his lip twitch at the memory, and he looks away, but Scott is wrapping a hand around the back of his neck and pulling him in, refusing to let him run away from this one, and Reyes is powerless to resist. His warm breath caresses the shell of his ear, and Reyes represses a shiver.

"You're getting careless," Scott drawls, roughly nipping his earlobe and sending a fissure of heat straight through him. "You missed a spot."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> _Last Edited: 03/29/2020... Tinkering._


	2. Original Version

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was comparing then and now and decided to throw this up here. This is the original version from 2017, the first thing I ever posted on AO3, and one of my oldest pieces of writing. Take that as you will...

The thing about torture was that it always sounded worse than it was.

The screaming, the yelling, the sobbing – it was all a ruse, theatrics for the weak at heart. It was painful, and perhaps uncomfortable, but most times the reactions it received were exaggerations. Quite frankly, it was a nuisance. _If you just answered the fucking question, no one would have to break your fingers._ It wasn’t that difficult of concept, and Reyes had spent enough time around the aliens of the Milky Way to know that it was not a unique ritual. He considered it a universal truth even. Torture happened, regardless if you were human, turian, salarian, or even hanar. How it ended was entirely up to the captive.

Well, usually.

Corpses tended to be work. Methodically dicing up the remains into burnable or easily scattered pieces, grinding down fingerprints and removing teeth if the latter – it took time and effort. If it was just a matter of hiding the body it wasn’t much of an issue, except that it normally took more than one person to move the bloody thing, and often the local wildlife took awhile to find it. It was much easier to simply remove a hand (or two), and in extreme cases, remove the tongue. Problem solved. Bingo bango.

If only that had been the case now.

Reyes sighed. Today had been a disaster, and it had barely started.

In front of him, a man screamed his innocence as Cato sought out and exposed every human vulnerability. He didn’t need to open his eyes to see the damage already done. He could hear it with every ragged breath the man took – a soft wheezing indicative of fractured ribs, a hiss on each intake for the dislocated shoulder. If he gave in now, he’d likely walk away from this. A little worse for wear, but nothing a trip to the clinic (or the bar) couldn’t heal. 

“Answer the question, you little Outcast shit,” The turian said, and it was followed by a wet _thunk_ and a slight cracking noise.

Reyes heard the captive spit blood. “Fuck you.” There was a brief pause before he continued, likely trying to figure out what not to say and selecting the most damning phrases in his limited vocabulary. “I’m not telling you a bloody thing, so go tell your boss that he can go to hell.”

And there it was.

Reyes gestured with a hand, and Cato stilled. They weren’t getting anywhere, and he had grown bored. Reyes considered himself a patient man, if the situation called for it, but now was not such an occasion. He wanted a name or answers, something to satisfy the beast that raged within him. It was furious, and it was out for blood. It gnashed its teeth and snarled, rattling on the bars of its cage with each failed interrogation.

It was day three, and he could feel his control slipping.

As the Charlatan, he believed he had few rules. Of course, there were the standard rules as within any community or established population to maintain a sense of order – they might be labelled the monsters of Andromeda, but at the very least they were civilized – and then there were two indulgent rules.

Rule number one: Never touch the human pathfinder.

Rule number two: Don’t fuck with Reyes Vidal.

He could play them off as having deeper, more complex reasons (politics, good business practices), but the reality of the situation was simple. Reyes Vidal did not like anyone touching things that were his, and the other removed one of the many targets likely painted on his back. The arrangement had worked neatly. Both members and non-members of the Collective were aware of the rules set down by the new leader of the port, and things had run smoothly for a time.

Up until now.

Five days ago, he had received word from a runner that the communication towers were down near Spirit’s Ledge. It was an annoyance, but a mild one. If the towers for the port and Draullir were intact, everything else was secondary. Not long later he heard that the Pathfinder’s Nomad was seen heading in the general direction, so he sent off the navpoint with a note attached outlining a very fitting reward if seen to. Five minutes later he received a response, and he remembered laughing out loud at Scott’s fumbled attempt at flirtation. Give the man a gun, and he was smooth as could be. Engage him in anything remotely sexual, and you’d find more skill in a pre-pubescent boy.

He had carried on with his day then, fielding requests and forwarding off memos to necessary individuals, the issue forgotten. As evening settled onto the port, he began to receive scattered reports of gunfire between two unknown parties, and when more missives began to trickle in, he had felt fear slither down his spine. 

_… comm towers appear to be fixed…_

_… signs of a struggle…_

_… pathfinder down… _

_... still breathing, injuries severe…_

_… other party members injured, signalling for medical evacuation…_

He had sat their numbly as a Collective member recited the news, feeling distant and removed, as if he was watching a film of somebody else’s tragedy. When the salarian had finally finished delivering the report, Reyes had chucked the datapad he’d been holding across the room with a snarl. The screen cracked and blinked out on impact, but the action had given him no satisfaction.

“Find them,” he heard himself say. “Find the people responsible and bring them to me.” His voice was quiet, but the underlying threat was loud.

The salarian glanced nervously at the broken datapad before nodding in confirmation. “Yes, sir.” His voice trembled when he spoke. “We’ll have men on it immediately.”

And they had found the men responsible.

Eventually.

The corpses had begun to pile up as the wounds Scott’s body began to heal, but it wasn’t enough. They still didn’t know who had made the call, and Reyes had only grown more unforgiving as time wore on. Perhaps the final captive would hold the answers.

He shook himself, returning to the present.

Cato was looking at him expectantly, and Reyes made another gesture with his hand. The captive might not know it yet, but the turian had been a kindness. The real monster in the room was just beginning to wake up, and it didn’t have mandibles.

The captive seemed to understand his folly sooner than expected. As Cato turned to leave, he began to struggle against his binds. “Hey! Where do you think you’re going?” The chair rocked in his desperation. “Don’t leave me here, you turian bastard!”

The door hissed close.

Reyes peeled himself from the wall slowly and approached the centre of the room, stopping a foot away from the bound man. He was breathing heavily, and the wounds on his face were leaking sluggishly.

“What the fuck do you want from me,” he sneered. He glowered up at a Reyes, and when an answer wasn’t forthcoming, he spat blood once more. It landed on Reyes’ boot, and he looked down at the splotch thoughtfully.

A lot could be said about manners. Reyes wasn’t one to stand on ceremony – the Collective was casual in many ways – but there was a time and a place for respect. It was unwise, not to mention stupid, to antagonise the monster holding your chains. Especially when the monster had such little control these days.

Reyes smiled, crouching down to be eye-level with the man. “Do you know what your first mistake was?” The question was bland, conversational even. He could have been asking the weather report or commenting on a shipment delivery.

The captive looked at him then, really looked at him, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “That I was caught by you assholes?” The answer was tentative, unsure. The pieces had started to fall into place, and Reyes could see the gears slowly turning within the man’s dilated pupils.

Reyes spoke softly, his face fixed in a bland smile. “You hurt something that is mine.”

The realization hit the man in stages, and he watched with dark amusement as his expression morphed into one of genuine horror. “Fuck… Shit!” Sweat had begun to dot his upper lip, and Reyes could see his erratic pulse on the pale skin of his throat. “We didn’t mean nothing by it. We didn’t _know_.” His voice cracked as the reality of the situation came crashing down on him.

They’d fucked up. It hadn’t been some scuffle over territory or cached goods – they’d unknowingly declared war not on the Collective, but the Charlatan himself.

Reyes remained quiet.

Waited.

The florescent light above made gentle clicking noises as it spluttered, casting eerie shadows around the room. The dried blood on the walls looked black, abstract designs on the metal surface, but he knew it was a riot of blues and reds in natural light. The pool of blood beneath the chair was still fresh though, gleaming brightly in the artificial light.

“I- I swear to you, if we’d known we wouldn’t have shot him. We’d never have even attacked in the first place,” the man babbled into the silence.

“Is that so?” He cocked his head. The smell of copper was nearly overwhelming in the room, and the tang of hard metals coated the inside of his mouth. Reyes savoured it. Blood was the scent of violence and chaos; it was fear’s beloved perfume, and he felt grounded in the aroma. Like fresh baked bread or the certain scents associated with childhood. It was familiar. Soothing.

“Yes! Everybody knows the Pathfinder is under your protection.” He almost looked relieved as he responded, as if he was getting somewhere. As if his pleas were not falling on deaf ears. “I know we’re Outcasts, and we might have attacked a few deliveries, but everyone does that in the badlands.” He swallowed thickly. “We might be enemies to the Collective, but we aren’t stupid. We’d never attacked if we’d known.”

Reyes leaned back. He considered the man for a moment, taking in the greasy hair, the bruising and swelling that decorated his face like crude face-paint. No rings adorned his fingers, and his messy appearance suggested unattachment.

“You left the Pathfinder to bleed to death,” he said quietly. Reyes didn’t think about how it physically pained him to say the words.

“That wasn’t me!” The captive struggled against the bindings once more. “That was Scrapper – she made the call. And she’s dead now.” He sounded so damned earnest. “Your men… when they found us, they threw a grenade and it landed right at her feet. She didn’t see and- and-, “he stumbled over the words briefly, “a second later, there was only blood and bone where she’d been.”

Reyes frowned. This man had been the last to interrogate, and the information seemed to align with the reports he already received. If the captive was telling the truth, there wasn’t much else that could be done. They had systematically tracked down and either captured or killed all other individuals present at the fight.

Reyes weighed his options once more. The man wasn’t very large - a turian could easily pick him up and throw him across the room. Or carry his corpse to a vehicle. Andromeda was not an ideal breeding ground for obesity; with food scarcity and rations typically the only available fare, most individuals – regardless the species – tended to be on the leaner side.

“That doesn’t fix anything.” He considered if there were any remaining sulfur springs after the vault had been reset. Perhaps one remained at the far edges of Kurinth’s Valley.

“Let me go, and I’ll make sure no one – no one – ever hurts him. I swear it on-on my mother’s grave!” His voice had risen, his final push for mercy, but Reyes was already thinking about disposal. There would be no justice today, only hollow vengeance and a message.

Images of Scott’s broken and battered body resurfaced.

He had been so pale, and the blood had been so bright.

“It’s too late.”

* * *

He emerged from the room an hour later.

The man’s death had given him an unexpected satisfaction, his mood lifting considerably at every broken cry and moan he had elicited. After fifteen minutes, he had been able to undo the bindings and maneuver the man as he pleased, any worry of retaliation gone.

He accepted the outstretched rag from Cato mutely, wiping off sticky smears from his fingers. Some blood has gotten under his nails, and he wondered if there was time for a proper shower. It was growing late, and the interrogation had taken longer than he expected. You could plan everything meticulously, and create contingency plan after contingency plan, but the minute you threw real individuals into the mix, things would undeniably be shot to hell.

“Could you take out the trash for me, Cato?” He motioned to the body over his shoulder. “I’m late for a meeting.”

When the turian nodded his assent, he passed the soiled rag back and clapped him on the shoulder in passing, a song on his lips and a bounce in his step. He felt better than he had in days.

* * *

  
Reyes crushed the last of his cigarette under his heel as he approached Tartarus. It was evening, or whatever counted as evening on a planet with an eternally setting sun, and the club appeared to be in full swing. A spectrum of different species were milling around the lower entrance, and on the second-floor balcony, groups of individuals had come together in clumps to smoke and ply their trades.

The meeting with Keema had been productive, and with any luck, shipments of Roekaar firearms would become more common-place at the port. Though the weapons were made from the same stock as the resistance counterparts, the Roekaar had grown creative with some of their modifications in response to the arrival of the new aliens. There would always be a need for bigger and better firepower, and it was his job to ensure that Collective had them. Things might have settled down for now with the victory over the Kett, but war would always be on the horizon whether they wanted it or not.

Reyes entered the club unhurriedly, weaving his way through the throngs of drunken individuals, thoughts occupied with business and numbers. He motioned to a waitress for a drink and entered his room, stopping short at the doorway.

Scott was sitting on the couch, chin cradled in one hand as the other held a datapad casually. He looked at ease – albeit mildly annoyed – mouth pursed and brows furrowed as he scanned whatever information it contained. His complexion was paler than normal, and the clothing he wore hung loose over his frame. When he heard the hiss of the door, he had tossed the datapad aside and looked up with bloodshot eyes. He smiled but made no motion to move or stand up.

“Hey,” he said.

“Scott,” Reyes responded in greeting. He approached him quickly, scanning his body for any sign of new injury. Scott shouldn’t have been up yet; he should have been resting in the medbay back on the Tempest. Even if it meant he could not see him physically, at least he had known the other man was safe and mending under the doctor’s ever watchful gaze. Who was, if the information Scott had previously divulged held any truth to it, likely in a panic trying to locate her patient. 

Having spotted nothing more notable than the bandages poking out from the collar of his shirt, Reyes leaned over and placed a soft kiss on the Pathfinder’s brow. He looked delicate and fragile – somehow reduced from the soldier that normally appeared before him. The thought troubled him, and it made his hands cautious despite their intense yearning to touch and assess.

Scott leaned into the contact with a quiet sigh. “You shouldn’t be up,” Reyes murmured, running his hand along the ever-present stubble. At least that much hadn’t changed. His eyes were closed, and the bruises beneath them appeared even more gruesome in the harsh florescent lights of Tartarus.

“Did you honestly expect me to stay in the medbay for much longer?” He glanced up at him, a wry smile forming on his lips.

Reyes snorted, releasing his jaw. “A man can dream.”

Scott laughed softly and leaned back, relaxing into the seat. “How was work,” he asked in response, shrugging off Reyes disapproval like a bullet to his shields. He learned early on that Scott did not fare well in cages. It didn’t matter if the cage was a necessary protection – if you constructed a barrier, he would use any means possible to scale it, sometimes simply out of spite. Reyes had decided that the only way to work around it was to either not build a cage in the first place, or build one so large the other man wouldn’t realize he was even in one.

Reyes made a non-committal sound, a canned answer at the ready, but Scott’s narrowed gaze made him pause. His eyes were focused intently on the area below Reyes’ chin, and though no words emerged from his mouth, a question hung in the air.

Reyes thought back on his day, the image of a face contorted in pain emerging to the forefront. There had been an impressive spray of blood when the screwdriver had found an artery.

“Satisfying,” he finally said.

Scott met his gaze and arched a brow dubiously, but his expression soon broke into a satisfied smirk. “Good,” he said, reaching up with both hands and pulling him in closer.

“You know,” he drawled, breath brushing the shell of his ear, “You missed a spot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I writing style has certainly changed a lot, whether for the better or not I do not know, but it's kind of nice to see where I started. If you're reading this, thank you for reading!


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